The Gray In Good
by fidelis5588
Summary: WWE's Undertaker has a serious problem controlling his darker side...espeically since he's escaped. When Mark learns that the only way to stop his evil counterpart from massmurder is to...well...I'll let you find out. R & R!
1. Chapter 1

**_The Gray In Good._**

**_Author's Notes; This one is going to be about as long as GreaterThan a Goddess, only better. It's basically present day, only with a good helping of the supernatural. It'll be really good! If I get lots of reviews, hint hint I'll update it sooner, and the next chapter is better than this one!_**

**_I don't own The Undertaker, or the WWE, or anything related to them, I'm not makiing any money off of this, so no sueing, yadda yadda._**

With a wicked grin, a huge looming figure with green eyes that almost seemed to grow stalked a young couple through a dark city. Their yelps and whimpers as they ran through the streets, along with the other nearby humans, only seemed to goad him on faster. "Why are you running?" He taunted, catching up with them. His long fingers wrapped in the blonde's hair, and he caught the young man around the throat. Both of them struggled with all their might, but he just laughed. "Running from the Reaper is useless."

The blonde girl shrieked suddenly when the giant started tightening his grip on the man's neck. He stuttered out a whimper, and slowly started to slow his wild struggling. They stood in the middle of what looked like a town after it had been hit by a bomb. The buildings that were still standing burned. The streets were partially flooded, and humans were fleeing in any direction, away from the giant devil of a man, who seemed to so easily cast them all into a fright. But he ignored all that he had caused, for now focusing on crushing the young man's windpipe.

The big man pulled the blonde closer, his goatee brushing roughly against her soft face as he made her watch. "Look at that. Watch him."

With a burst of power, he squeezed harder, and bone cracking was audible. The young brown haired man went limp. The blonde girl started flailing wildly, crying out for help. There were others on the street, but no one made a move to help her. Some of them moved forward like they wanted to, but whenever they got close enough to the man, they paled and ran off.

"Cry for me," The red head demanded, his full attention now focused on the girl. But she was already crying. Urgent, hot tears streamed down her face, smudging her mascara. "L-let me go," She pleaded in a high voice.

Suddenly Mark's fingers disentangled from her hair.. She lost her balance and almost fell since the man was no longer holding her up by her hair. With a shocked look on her face, she took one step away from him, then two, and then broke into a run, her long blonde hair flying out wildly behind her.

Strangely enough, the attacker didn't seem the least perturbed. The many tattoos on his body seemed almost alive as he let out a sadistic chuckle and started after the girl at an unnervingly calm pace, rapidly picking it up into a sprint. . He ran with almost in-human speed, and caught up with the girl who was still running as fast as she could. He caught her by the hair again, roughly jerking her to a painful stop. "Hello," he said in a cheery voice.

Her blue, tear filled eyes widened. But before she could scream, Mark had reached out and snapped her pale neck. She stiffened, let out a strangled yowl, and then she collapsed to the ground as her murderer stepped back. For the first time he seemed to notice the other people in the process of fleeing his presence. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a family with young children fleeing to the west. He grinned, and started toward them, his mind already devising how they would die, as he leaned down to sweep up a teenaged boy in his arms, snapping his neck with a crack, almost like he was warming up for another kill.

"NO!" The muscled red-head suddenly sat up straight in his bed with a yell. He had been sleeping horribly, tossing, turning, and moaning the whole night. For a second, he looked about his room with a lost look. Then he blinked. He always forgot where he was when he stayed in hotels. But he remembered now that he saw his piles of luggage stacked up carelessly against the wall. Yes, that was right. His flight had gotten in at midnight, he had checked into his hotel, and collapsed in bed.

He cast a bleary-eyed look at the night stand beside him. The glowing numbers of the clock said 4:26 AM. Mark scowled, and threw the covers off, revealing his long, sweat covered body. He swung his legs off of the side of the bed, and hobbled to the bathroom, favoring his left knee as he walked.

"Damn." Mark cursed as he looked at his pallid, sweaty complexion in the mirror. With a squeak, he turned on the faucet and splashed freezing water on his face. That done, he dried his face with a thin white towel, cast a glance back to the mirror, grunted, and made his way stiffly back to bed.

"First the episode at the airport, now all these dreams," He snarled irritably as he rolled over on his side, slipping a hand under his pillow as he moved into his favorite sleeping position. "Maybe I should see a shrink," He yawned out, before falling back into a fitful, dream-filled sleep. He had four hours before he had to get up. Four hours that he was determined would be spent sleeping.

Mark burst into his locker room with a growl, firey green eyes searching the room for something unknown. His locker roommate of the day, Kurt Angle, looked up from where he was doing some stretching floor exercises. "Mark," greeted the bald-headed man good naturedly, with a smile. He made no move to get up, as he was already half-way through with his stretching and didn't want to have to start all over. But his face fell when he noticed Mark's deep scowl. "Bad day?" He asked, moving into a straddle on the floor, grunting as his muscles stretched.

Mark sighed, and put a hand on his forehead. "You have no idea Kurt." He moved to sit on the only couch in the room, and began wrangling off his heavy boots, his bad temper making the task harder than it really was. He fought with the laces for a moment before giving up and yanking first one shoe, and then the other off his foot, still tied, and heaving them across the room, where they hit the wall with two resounding thuds, and fell to a pile on the floor.

Kurt looked at Mark, his head tilted at a weird angle as he was pressing his forehead against the side of his upper calves. "Guess not." His voice was quizzical, almost humourous. "Wanna talk about it, Big Guy?"

"No I don't want to talk about it Kurt." Mark snapped, regretting his harsh tone. He knew the other man was just trying to help, but this was something he couldn't tell ANYONE, let alone another wrestler. He would have to deal with his problems on his own; that was his way. He started again, voice softer. "I just want to have a good match, and go home and wallow."

"Wallow." Kurt repeated after him, sitting up once more and now beginning to twist his waist from side to side, still in a straddle. "Wallow, eh? That doesn't sound too productive." He raised one eyebrow and licked his lips, looking to the older man, not at all put off. He had known Mark for a while now, and he knew sometimes he got in one of his moods. "Whatever. You've never been one to share secrets." His voice was nonchalant. "We'll have a good fight." Kurt promised as he braced himself with his hands on the floor behind him. He brought both of his muscled legs together, flexing his toes and bending his knees a few times before standing with a slight groan. "I'll be going out in ten. See you after the match."

The redhead gave him a slight nod, and turned to the sink they had. There wasn't a bathroom in this particular dressing room, which was odd, but at least they had a sink. He watched the back of Kurt's head as he walked out the door. Even with thoughts weighing heavy on his mind, he couldn't resist a small smile at the phrase that had become a tradition for them. Of course he would see Kurt during the match, but not as himself. Kurt would be in character, and so would he, in more ways than one.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Enjoy guys! Man, I creeped myself out writing that last part! Read and Review or i'll be slow to update! And tell your friends!_**

A much changed Mark stood behind the curtain, head lowered, his red hair stained dark with water. He was changed in appearance, a gothical attire complete with trench coat and eyeliner. But part of his soul had also shifted. He was not the good-natured Texan, Mark Calaway, he was Undertaker. And not in the terms of being in character. He truly WAS Undertaker. There were times when he seemed to lose control of his body and his mind, times when they seemed to belong to someone else, not himself. Today had been one of those days. His Darker side had come out unbidden in the air port, and he had to go to the Restroom and splash himself with cold water before he felt he was safe enough to be around. There were times, when he was wrestling, when he felt so much more eager to pound his opponent, to actually hurt them. It scared him, but it gave him a whole new edge when it came to the character the fans saw, and so Mark never put more than a due amount of thought into it.

Mark hopped lightly on his feet, shifting, keeping his blood flowing as his arms were held loosely at his sides so they were free to move and sway with his body. He hated the feeling of losing control._Hated_ it. Mark fought an internal struggle, to keep the dark desires and urges silent, down. Out of sight, out of mind. But more and more often, he was losing control. Even tonight, he could feel his mind slipping. As his music hit, he almost lost it. He could smell the sweat and excitement of the fans. Their expectations for violence. The heady brew almost put him over the edge as the butterflies in his stomach that he got from anticipation, not nervousness, started to jump around. Slowly he began his slow pacing to the ring, a darker, more sadistic glare on his face than was usual, for inside he struggled.

_-Hurt him.-_ Something hissed.

_-No!-_ He violently refused as he walked around the ring, approaching the steps. He was never nervous or worried when he went out to the ring. Mark was happy in the ring. He was alive. At least, that was how it used to be. Once he had wrestled because it gave him joy, because he felt truly alive. Because he loved it. But now, his life was being turned upside down but something he could barely control-something inside of him. _-Fuck off!-_

_-Kill him. He is your opponent. He is a foolish man. Childlike. Look at his cockiness. He should bow to me. He should worship me. HURT HIM.-_ The voice hissed. It was strikingly similar to the way his own voice sounded, and even in his head, it resounded very clearly, just as it would, had it been spoken aloud.

_-Leave. Shut up. Just leave me the hell alone. This is MY body.-_ He thought forcefully, realizing that he was standing in the ring, with his coat and hat already off. _'God.'_ He thought. _'I have to pay attention. It..He might slip in and take over without me realizing it.'_

Mark and Kurt worked a good match. Not great, not okay. Both wrestlers were excellently versed with the sport of wrestling. They knew each other, knew the match, knew the ring better than they knew themselves. It didn't take much effort to put on a perfectly acceptable match between two such exceptional competitors. But Mark, however, was less than happy with his performance, and vented it audibly as soon as he and Kurt reached their room.

"Dammit!" The sweaty wrestler snarled, limping slightly over to the couch he had been on before the start of the match. He pulled down the straps of his singlet-like shirt, exposing his tattooed lower torso, as he leaned back into the cushions.

Kurt stayed a little away from him, almost like he was unsure. Timid was the word. "Mark?" He asked, a half smile creeping unto his face. He had noticed, almost subconsciously, that his friend hadn't been working at the level he usually did- and that was 110. It was not the first time it'd happened in the past months though. In fact, everyone who had been working closely with Mark seemed to notice little things about Mark that seemed askew. "So, the hips giving you trouble today?" He prodded, feeling like now was as good a time as any to get his feelings out into the open.

"Is your neck giving_you_ trouble?" Mark challenged in a slightly growling voice. Of course Kurt's neck was aching, as were his hips. And his knees. And his damned mind. Obviously he was still not in the best of moods. "I know I wasn't up to my normal par out there. You don't have to skitter around the subject like a scared squirrel." He shot the other man a look, and leaned forward to rest his palms on his knees, as Kurt opened his mouth to speak again. "Don't ask. Just don't. I'll work it out. Next week; top of my game. I promise."

With that, he got up, his knees cracking as he stood. The big man strode over to the room, still in his wrestling tights and folded-down shirt. With one swipe, he picked up his heavy duffle bag and walked out of the room, the door still swinging as he disappeared down the hall. People he passed seemed to slow and give him a double take, before continuing on, for where the usual easy coming lop-sided grin, and a pleasant, "How ya doin'?" usually were, in place was the scowl he wore to the ring.

Mark's match with Kurt had been the main event, so he took his time showering and changing into his street clothes before he started making his way through the winding back-halls of the Arena to his car. Getting mobbed by fans today was not a good idea, for either parties involved. When he finally got to his silvery-gray rented Cadillac, he fumbled with the keys, cursing, before getting in and high-tailed it out of the now almost deserted parking lot.

"Damned finicky automobile," He growled as he slipped into the drivers seat, fumbling with the keys once again as he went to get them in the ignition. Finally he got them in. With a sigh of relief, he turned the keys. A sound like a dying cat yowling reached his ears. "Shit!" Quickly he yanked the keys out, turning the car off. Mark shoved the door open and tumbled out of his car, over six feet of boiling anger extremely close to overflowing.

Mark pulled the lever to pop the hood, and he lifted it up, examining the engine. It looked alright. Mark quickly checked the oil and then hopped back into the drivers seat, one long leg hanging out the side. He tried again. Still nothing good.

Mark cursed as his eyes trailed across the gas gauge. "No gas? I just filled this damn thing up!" He thought for a moment, and then his green eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as he slunk out of the car to look at the opposite side, where the gas cap was. It was dangling open, covered in scratches. He tried to shut it, and it swung back open. That was the last straw for the stressed out giant. "DAMMIT!" He roared, ripping the top off its hinges, and without a second thought hurling it across the parking lot. Mark walked back around the car, and slammed the door loudly. "Why can't I catch a fucking break once in a while?" Mark exclaimed, his boots clunking on the ground as he walked back to the door he had come out from, and yanked on the handle. All he got for his efforts was a protesting creak from the bolted door. "It's locked!"

Mark was fit to be tied. He turned on his heel, his face red. In the nighttime, it was hard to see anything, and as he was walking back to his car, he tripped over something on the ground. Cursing, Mark jumped up and grabbed the thing, realizing it was a crowbar. Feeling almost possessed, he threw the long metal tool that had obviously been used to pry open his gas cap so the fuel in his car could be siphoned out. He didn't hear anything for a second, but suddenly there was the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. Mark winced, feeling like a boy who had just hit a baseball through a window. Unfortunately, he wasn't a boy, and he couldn't just run for it. He had to go see what his tantrum had caused now.

Mark walked quickly to the sound, and found himself in a darker corner of the parking lot where there were no lights. He didn't think much of it, until he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his head, almost like a dagger being thrust through his scull. Completely different than a migraine.

With a groan, Mark sank to his knees with his head in his hands next to the car where the crowbar he had thrown was sticking out through the rear window. "Oh, God," He managed in an extremely rough voice as he put his hands to his head.

_-You should have listened to me.-_

Something said inside his mind. The voice was scaly, hissing. It actually scared Mark. He wasn't a man easily spooked by any stretch.

_-Get out! Whatever you are, whatever you're doing to me, get out! _He shot back.

_-You're scared.-_

The voice was pointed. Confident. Mark could almost see the dark thing licking its lips with pleasure. His heart rate sped up as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, willing with all his heart for this just to be a nightmare.

_-I knew you were nothing. I can't believe I put up with you for this long.-_

_-You want out? Then go!-_

_-Ho, boy, you're in for an eye-opener. You'll wish you never said that.-_

And then there was no more talking. Mark shot several more shaky sentences at the thing, but none of them sounded the same as they had before. They weren't _connecting _with it. It was as if his thoughts weren't transmitting properly.

Mark let himself fall forwards, his forehead resting on the cool asphalt of the parking lot. Alone in the dark with an unknown pain like he had never felt before, and a voice inside his head that shouldn't have been there, Mark was more terrified than he had ever been in his life. Especially when deep, cackling laughter filled his ears, and he was unsure wether it was coming from his mind, or if the thing had taken on a tangible form and was waiting for him in the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Trembles started running up and down Mark's mammoth form. A veteran wrestler, a locker room leader, a man who was worshiped by millions and had claimed to fear nothing, an man who was the master of a character sunk deeply into satanic-like actions, was scared so badly he was shaking. The tremors were especially severe around his upper body, and his broad muscular shoulders were visibly trembling, as bile raised from fear welled up in his throat.

Scared half to death, he slowly raised his head, still on his knees. The laughter had stopped. Thank God it had stopped. He didn't think he could have taken a second more of that mind grating, heart piercing grate. Although he blinding pain in his head hadn't gone away, it was slowly receding, so he was able to focus a little better. All he could see in front of him was a dark brick wall, presumably the side of the arena, and extremely faintly he could make out his shadow, cast from the distant lights in the other parts of the parking lot.

Then something moved.

Or at least, sounded like it moved, very slightly.

Mark's fight or flight instinct took over and he quickly rose to his knees, one hand touching the ground in front of him for support, as he glared at the air in front of him. His mind raced for an idea. Something to grab. A plan. Anything.

Before he could come up with a course of action that resulted in anything other than confronting whatever it was that was terrorizing him, it moved again. The soft smack of skin against stone was clearly audible in the quiet night air. Mark was too stunned to talk, let alone shout at the thing, and he simply remained in horrified stillness, watching with growing shock as his shadow stretched. It visibly _stretched._

"Oh, my, God," Mark breathed out so low he could barely hear himself. Thankfully the shaking started to subside, but his breathing seemed dead set on never leveling out.

His shadow, which like any normal shadow; it had been an exact copy of his outline against the brick wall; a large, darker blob, crouched down, as Mark was on his knees.

And it had moved. Stood up.

Mark's green eyes were fixed on it, and he forgot to breath as utter shock at this phenomenon took over his better senses. Unless there was another giant of a man standing behind him who had the exact same shadow as he did, Mark was positive his shadow had moved. And yet, there was a bulge at the bottom. Where he was crouched, he still cast a shadow.

'_Two shadows?'_ He thought numbly as his gaze traveled slowly up and down the tall figure of..._his _shadow.

Then it jerked. It tilted its head a little bit.

That was all Mark could take. He wildy scrabbled to his feet, his shadow stretching up to match up with the other perfectly. He whirled around, only to find an empty parking lot behind him. Mark narrowed his eyes, and slowly turned back around to look at the wall. He let out a gasp when he saw a dark...thing fleeing down to the right. And _his _shadow was what copied the figures every move as it fled.

'_Mine.'_ Mark thought with a racing pulse. _'That was my shadow. My fucking shadow.'_

The big man hustled and turned around as fast as he could, taking off back towards where there was light, back towards the arena. At this point, he could care less what poor guys windshield he had busted open.

He was going so fast that he was unable to slow down when he saw someone coming in his direction. With a thud, he collided with a shadowy figure he knew quite well.

"Aww Jesus Mark," Came the high pitched reply from somewhere underneath him.

Mark, still extremely shaken, didn't notice that he'd been given the chance to turn his little moment of klutziness into something funny. He simply lounged, sprawled on top of the other wrestler on the asphalt.

"Get off, you freakin' cow!" He grunted again, this time pushing against Mark with all his might. Off course, he knew if Mark didn't want up he couldn't get him up no matter how hard he tried. Kurt was sore and tired after his match, and his friend was practically a giant. Still, he struggled. "What are you aiming to do? Get off!"

Finally Mark scrambled up from the mess of arms and legs with a groan, stumbling a few steps as he swing back around to stare at Kurt as the other man struggled to his feet as well. "No, I don't need any help." He said sarcastically as the helping hand Mark usually instantly offered never made an appearance.

He brushed his now rumpled suit off, and looked at Mark expectantly. "What's gotten into you?" He asked, his expression growing serious when he noticed Mark's extremely frazzled appearance. "Mark, you're really pale. Are you alright-"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"Yeah, right." The olympian gave him a disbelieving look as he started moving to ward the direction Mark had come from. Alarm settled in Mark's eyes because his friend was headed into a place where something beyond disturbing had just happened to him.

"Uhh, " He muttered, and stood still for a second, torn between fear of the unknown and care for his friend. The strong bond of friendship soon won over, and he found himself tagging reluctantly after Kurt. "Uhh, uhh Kurt," He fumbled.

"My car!" Kurt suddenly bellowed, and took off ahead.

Mark's face, which was already pale because of fright, turned ashen, and then bright red as realization of what he had done rushed to him in one intuitive blast. He quickened his pace o catch up with the man, who was sure to be angry when he got closer to see the damage. "Kurt, I uh, I can explain about that,"

He slowed to a stop, at Kurt's side, his hand going to rest on the lower part of Kurt's shoulder in hopes that he wouldn't take the news too badly.

But when he saw what was on the car, the formerly flying crowbar that was sticking out the back window paled in comparison. "Eww." Was all the awed Mark could manage as he looked on with wide eyes.

From their vantage point of about ten feet, both wrestlers could see that Kurt's large car, that had been, and was probably still, under the thick cover of roaches that coated it, an expensive automobile.

The disgusting critters somehow were stuck to the entire vehicle. Mark was both revolted and in a state of awe as he and Kurt crept closer, and the extent of the roaches covering the car became clearer.

They were everywhere. And they were dead. Or at least, the vast majority of them were. Some antennas and legs still waved frantically above the sea of bodies, but most were still. Their hard, brown bodies extended over the hood, the trunk, and the back of the car easily. But what confounded Mark and Kurt, was how they stuck to the sides of the car.

"What the hell," Mark said as he crept a little closer, leaving Kurt just standing with his mouth slowly opening and closing like a fishes. The big man walked the entire length of the car, squinting in the darkness as he tilted his head down to look at the car. Finally he stopped, and crouched down to lean back on his heels right next to the right rear door. He leaned close, and then gasped. "Kurt, they're stuck on with some kind of liquid." he called out, his attention never wavering. Gingerly Mark nudged the body of one of the roaches and it easily fluttered to the ground. What was left was a thick, dark substance. Mark swiped a little off and rubbed it between his fingers. _'It's gooey,' _He smelled it, frowned, and suddenly jerked back.

"Kurt!" He said, sprinting the few steps between he and the other man. "You got that stupid little light?"

The shorter man stared up at him like he was insane for a moment, before blinking as a wave of understanding filled his face. He stuck his hand in his pocket, and came out with a set of keys. After a moments fumbling, a very small penlight ripped a hole through the darkness.

Mark huddled around the tiny light and held his hand under it. "It's..." Mark started, looking at the liquid that covered his fingers with horror.

"Blood." Kurt finished when Mark didn't, looking back up at him. "Who would do something like that?"

"I don't know man, but we better call Vince and then the cops."

"Right." Kurt nodded. This time he was the one who was shaken. "Come on." he cast a last glance at his once gorgeous Jag and started a fast pace back towards the arena.

"Yeah." Mark answered. But he lingered a few seconds after Kurt, glancing around in the darkness with the distinct feeling that what had happened to him earlier and this incident weren't simply coincidence, but connected. He couldn't tell Kurt any of that, of course. _'It was...' _His mind fished for something to explain what had gone on earlier. Something logical. One brilliant idea to explain away the sheer craziness of his encounter. Nothing came, and he decided the best thing to do was forget about it. _'Nothing. Something. I don't know.' _

Then he turned and started after Kurt, his unease evident in the way he walked so quickly to catch up.


End file.
